


Dry Skin

by Oakwyrm



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Eyepocalypse, Blind Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, But he's trying, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, Jonathan Sims is Bad At Self-Care, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26287984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oakwyrm/pseuds/Oakwyrm
Summary: It's such a small thing. So ridiculously inconsequential in the grand scheme of things that it would make him laugh if it wasn't threatening to send him spiralling in a very mundane, human way.or;Jon has to deal with being human again in the wake of everything that happened to him, and all that entails.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 246





	Dry Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Because this is a problem that runs in my family so I ended up thinking about it and TMA almost at the same time and went "WAIT" so now here's some Jon angst because I can.
> 
> More detailed CW in the endnotes.

His hands hurt. Not the bone-deep ache he was familiar with when his left leg would strain against him and scream its displeasure at the slightest movement. That, he was used to, more a background buzz than anything. Manageable so long as he remembered to use his cane on bad days, a task which was slightly more complicated these days but not impossible. It had gotten worse in the wake of the worms, their burrowing further damaging his already weak muscles but he could handle it.

It wasn’t anything near as painful as the worms had been, either. Or the feeling of Michael’s long, sharp finger sinking into his arm, or Melanie’s scalpel in his shoulder, or Jared, pulling his ribs from his chest, or the crushing weight of the Buried, or Jude’s burning grip which had left his entire right palm numb once it had healed. It couldn’t hold a candle to the agony of blinding himself, wrenching himself free from Beholding’s grasp and leaving a great, open wound where it had once tethered itself so tightly. One he had no idea how to treat, which he could only hope would heal over time if left alone.

The migraines had been getting less frequent, though no less severe, at least.

None of which served to solve his current problem.

Because his hands still hurt. A sharp, stinging pain which he might once have likened to burning. What a laughable comparison that was now.

He knew what was wrong, of course. He’d lived with his body long enough to know all of its eccentricities and how to care for them. Much as everyone in his life may doubt that. He should have expected this when the first chill of winter began to roll in, but when held up against everything else, it had just slipped his mind.

His coma had conveniently taken him through the worst of last winter, and since then he’d had no cause to consider something so mundane as dry skin. He may not even have been human enough for it to have become a concern again. But he was so very human now, and his body had not seen fit to get over its cantankerous nature. His skin was still prone to drying and cracking whenever the winter air turned that particular nasty kind of dry. It had been so for as long as he could remember.

He’d left it alone too long. He could have solved this issue days ago, but he hadn’t, and now uncomfortable dryness had turned to stinging pain. It would turn into bleeding cracks if he didn’t do something.

The problem was there was only one thing to be done. But the thought alone sent Jon’s heart into an uncomfortable race and made his hands shake.

“It’s just l-” He choked around the word, which turned into a despairing laugh as he sank to the bathroom floor. He drew a deep breath and steeled himself, pulling himself up to search through the bathroom cupboard. His hand soon landed on a bottle of hand lotion, fingers trembling as they skimmed across the braille label.

“It will be worse if you don’t,” he muttered to himself and tried to ignore how weak his voice sounded.

He flinched as the cap popped open. There was no fragrance to go with it. Martin always made sure of that. Jon had never been so grateful for anything, as he was for the utter lack of scent coming from the bottle in his hands.

Then the first glob of lotion hit his skin, cold and thick and the bottle slipped from his shaking hands and clattered into the sink.

His breath clogged in his throat, blocked by a thick cloud of vanilla and lavender and chamomile, natural scents that none the less carried the tell-tale undertone of something artificial. Hands of hard, unyielding plastic reached out of the darkness, caressed his face with false gentleness, a voice clucked disapprovingly from the shadows, an awful mockery of a parent’s gentle scolding and he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t _breathe_ -

He barely managed to stumble his way to the toilet before his stomach revolted and emptied itself of its contents. His breath returned to him, harsh and fast, nausea still rising in his throat. The acrid smell was almost a relief, cutting sharply through the haze of floral-scented memory.

He coughed weakly and fell back against the wall, all strength bleeding out of him as he tried to steady his breathing.

In, hold, out, hold.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice, accompanied by a soft knock on the bathroom door, startled Jon badly enough to make him jump. His head snapped up and smacked against the tiled wall. Pain lanced through his skull, sharp and sudden, a strangled cry forced itself from his throat.

“Jon, are you alright?” Martin sounded worried, but Jon’s brain couldn’t bother with that. It was stuck on one glorious, simple fact. So simple, he could curse himself for not thinking of it sooner.

“Martin,” he breathed as he pulled open the door. He probably looked a mess. The sharp intake of breath he received in response confirmed that easily enough. “Martin, you have skin!” He definitely sounded somewhat deranged, and he couldn’t have kept the relieved grin off his face even if he’d had the energy to try.

“Um,” Martin said. “L-last I checked?” He sounded shaken, and it took Jon a second to realise that on top of everything else there were quickly-drying tear tracks running down his face, faint traces of salt crusting against his cheeks in an unpleasant way. “Seriously, Jon, are you alright?”

“I-” Jon faltered, the overwhelming relief of his realisation fell away in the face of the embarrassment of having to _ask_. To make this yet another thing that worried Martin. He knew before he’d even finished the thought what Martin would say to that. He imagined their roles reversed, as Martin would ask him to should he speak his thoughts aloud, and found all arguments he could make against asking dissolved. “I may need some help.”

Martin’s answering huff of laughter, not amused but full of incredulous fondness, brought a soft warmth to Jon’s heart. “Of course,” he said. “Is it alright if I touch you?”

“Please.” The raw desperation in his own voice startled Jon, but Martin said nothing of it. A soft, warm, _human_ hand settled gently on his arm. Large and comforting. The furthest thing from Nikola’s cold plastic. Another rose to wipe fresh tears from his face gently, so gently that Jon feared- or hoped? He could no longer tell- that something within him would break for it.

“What can I do?” Martin asked.

Jon drew a deep breath. “The- If you- It fell in the sink,” he managed to get out past the stubborn knot in his chest. He heard Martin shift and a quiet ‘oh’ of realisation, tinged with such sorrow and understanding that it made some old, familiar corner of Jon’s soul which recoiled at the idea of being known, of _vulnerability_ , twitch and pull away.

Jon wrenched himself forcefully back into the moment. This was Martin, he was _safe_. He had already _seen_ Jon in a much deeper sense than anyone else ever had or ever would again. And Jon refused to let his relationship with Martin go the way of his relationship with Georgie. True enough, the two of them had reconciled after he had severed himself from the Eye, but the path to that reconciliation had been long and hard. It would probably never have happened had Martin not insisted he contact Melanie. Solidarity in their situations and all that. And with Melanie had come Georgie and-

She was happy for him, now. _Proud_ of him. That feeling, the comfortable warmth that uncurled in his chest like a cat relaxing in a spot of sunlight, had come from hard conversations. From taking what he guarded so jealously and letting others see it. See _him_.

“It’s my hands,” he offered quietly. “They get dry when the weather gets like this.”

Martin hummed softly. “I was wondering how to bring that up with you,” he said.

“Oh.” Jon faltered. Martin had noticed. Of course. How could he not? They lived together, spent hours each day in each other’s company, slept in the same bed every night. Of course, Martin would notice his skin drying out. “Well. They’re starting to hurt, and it’s only going to get worse unless I-” he swallowed hard against a fresh wave of nausea- “unless I _do_ something about it.”

“Right,” Martin said, all steady determination. “How can I help?”

“Could you…” Jon took a moment to steel himself against the shame that tried to curl through him. “If you could do it for me? And make sure it’s not- that it isn’t cold when it touches my skin?”

“I can do that.”

The sound of the cap popping off the bottle made Jon flinch, a brief flare of panic running through him but Martin settled a steady hand on his arm, grounding and real, and he focused on his breathing.

“You’re going to have to take your ring off,” Martin said quietly.

“What?” Jon frowned, briefly confused before- “Oh, right.” Carefully he closed his fingers around the weight that encircled his right middle finger, pulling the solid black band off and shoving it into his pocket. His hand felt wrong without it there. Signalling who he was to all who knew the secret language of violets and purple string and plain rings worn with a purpose beyond the decorative.

He still remembered the uncomfortable shock that came with Tim’s initial assumption about him and Basira. But, he had reasoned, he wore the ring for the express purposes of _not_ having to talk about himself. If someone missed what he was so clearly telegraphing that was hardly his fault.

There were many times, in later days, when he had bitterly wondered if he’d cleared that up, done even that much to get closer to Tim, to any of his Assistants, if things might not have gone differently.

“You okay to start?” Martin’s voice shook him out of his thoughts. He nodded, not trusting his voice to hold.

The thick, slippery feel of the lotion on his hands sent a jolt down his spine. But Martin kept his promise. There was no chill to it, no cold plastic fingers, no laughter out of the darkness. Only warm, soft hands, working it into his skin with gentle precision, chasing away the stinging dryness bit by careful bit.

Martin shifted, his forehead coming to rest against Jon’s as he worked, a point of grounding contact beyond their hands and the mind-bending push and pull of panic and comfort. Jon drew a deep breath and leaned into the touch, tearing his attention away from his hands as best he could.

They sat there in silence as Martin continued to gently massage his hands until his skin had absorbed the lotion completely. His breathing steadied, and he shifted so he could press his face into Martin’s shoulder instead. Large, safe arms rose to encircle him, and Jon melted into the embrace.

“Better?” Martin asked, speaking softly enough that his voice didn’t echo off the bathroom tiles.

“Yes,” Jon said, his reply slightly muffled but still audible. “Thank you.”

Martin pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “You’d have done the same for me,” he said.

Jon hummed a wordless reply, an attempt to stifle the yawn crawling slowly up his throat. It proved a fruitless endeavour.

“What time is it?” he muttered.

“Half-past eleven, I think,” Martin said, his smile audible in his voice.

“Right.” Jon pulled away just enough to stretch, the bone-deep exhaustion that came with emotionally distressing tasks settling over him like a heavy blanket. “I think I’ll head to bed, then.”

“Good plan,” Martin said. “I think I’ll join you.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than Jon found himself scooped up into a bridal carry, his only warning the way Martin shifted and a quick tap on his legs, a silent question to which his own silence was answer enough.

“Martin!” He could not conceal the laughter in his voice any more than he could the smile on his face. “I can make it there on my own two legs just fine.”

“But do you want to?” Martin asked. His tone was teasing, but Jon knew the question was genuine.

He paused to consider his option for only a moment but relaxed further into Martin’s arms. “Not particularly.”

“That’s what I thought.” Martin’s voice carried with it a fondness that curled around them like the warmth of a hearth fire.

Jon found Martin’s face and pressed a kiss to his cheek as he let himself be carried from the bathroom and towards their bedroom. His hands no longer stung, his heart had slowed back to its usual pace. Here, with Martin, in their little flat away from all the things that had hunted them, he was safe.

Here he was _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> CW:  
> \- Mentions of a lot of the Bad Shit that's happened to Jon, special focus on Nikola and the Circus  
> \- Referenced self-inflicted eye trauma  
> \- Panic  
> \- Flashbacks  
> \- Throwing up  
> \- Feelings of shame surrounding asking for help


End file.
